Just my monastery
In Rome I’m reminded of
Your sheet, how it skips a beat
As I wander through your lonely heart.
Your last home reminds us of
The needlessly neat
Death you wanted to do apart.
Horror came to taunt you,
Climbing up and down those stairs;
There you must have crumbled
Under circumstances hard to bear.
What’s heard in there is all despair,
I sat down next to you to talk.
We mashed together centuries,
Ended in piece, and on we walked.
We mashed together eras like
There was no tomorrow for you and me,
As we sat there, in your stairway,
Before I had to leave.
John, your chaos theory
Leaves me weary. Order
You taught me to give up,
In order to adore adorned little hick-ups.
Stick-up kids in the middle of a rhyme,
Chasing after your paper,
iPhone, condoms, and dimes.
Mashed potatoes on a plate full of fries –
That’s two kinds of tater,
With a gravy surprise.
But all this mashing,
This mixing what shouldn’t be mixed,
This going against the current of mist,
Is leaving me tired, expired, and whipped.
And sometimes I need to aspire
A whiff of words that will get people higher.
Not just confused or annoyed,
Flabbergasted and acid,
But moved and grooved,
Somewhat intrigued and inspired.
If I may, I will tell them
About this talk we had together.
The weather outside,
The songs we shared.
Songs of tuberculosis,
The breastplate of Moses,
And the seven candlesticks
John saw in heaven.
Eleven more levels of Maslow’s steps,
And my spirit, you say, will disperse.
And to know that if I am an angel, at best,
To my body will happen the worst.
I assure you, however, I am no such thing,
That my blue hair is misleading.
Still, you ask me to be ever so careful,
And put down the books that I’m reading.
They were of songs about you…
And on we walked.